B V 

4^00 

ru)5 






*-L 



Bcautp for 



nsolatiott for tl 





Ox 



R«»* iaiJilatii C ttltlber, p 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 






iijpjnTpjt If txl\L.Q. 

Shelf 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES 



CONSOLATION FOR THE BEREAVED 



By REV. WILLIAM C. WILBOR, Ph.D. 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

BISHOP JOHN HEYL VINCENT 



He hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, ... to comfort all 
that mourn; ... to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for 
mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. — Isa. 61. 1-3 




I4B16JI 



NEW YORK : HUNT & EATON 

^ f 



CINCINNATI : CRANSTON & CURTS 
1896 



AH 

roN ' / 

3 



The Library 

of Conor ess 



WASHINGTON 






oo 



Copyright by 

HUNT & EATON, 

1896. 



Composition, electrotyping, 
printing, and binding by 

Hunt & Eaton, 
150 Fifth Ave., New York. 



LC Control Number 



III 

tmp96 027695 




PREFACE 



MY apology for adding another book of conso- 
lation to the number of like publications, 
and of imitating such models as have before found 
favor with the sorrowing, is twofold. 

First, the wealth of such literature ever increases, 
and, like the ripe harvest, ought to be gathered, 
even though the granary seem already quite full. 

Second, an important part of every true pastor's 
labor is to comfort those that mourn. It is with 
the devout hope that among the varied selections 
here offered ministers may find some aid in cheering 
the sorrowing that this little volume is sent forth. 

To those whom I have sought to help in their be- 
reavement these messages are affectionately dedi- 
cated, with the earnest desire that among them 
some words of blessing, comfort, faith, and hope 
may be found. William C. Wilbor. 

Olean, N. Y., December, 1895. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

44 Comfort All that Mourn " 9 

Deep Grief. — " Blessed are They that Mourn." — 
Holy Ground. — The Beyond. 

Infancy 15 

The Deepest Grief.— The Pitcher of Tears.— The 
Blossoms Fall. — Why the Baby Came. — Better 
than Marble. 

Childhood and Youth 23 

Sorrow is World-wide. — The Mother of an Angel. 
— Short Lives Not Fruitless. — A Year in Heaven. 
— Questionings. — The Invisible Children. — Resig- 
nation. — One Moment. 

Maturity ._ 33 

Soliloquy on Death. — Memory, Love, Hope. — 
Compensation. — Messages. — A Little While. — 
The Guests of God. — Appreciation for the Living. — 
Love and Death. — Fold Ye the Ice-cold Hands. — 
They Come No More.— Death of a Mother. — 
Mother is Resting. — The Death of My Mother.— 
The Tearless Land. — I Shall be Satisfied. — In 
Shadow Land. — The Shore of Eternity. — Safe at 
Home. 

The Aged 55 

Good Night. — Rest, Home, Life.— At the Last. — 
The Flood of Years.— Only Waiting.— Final Vic- 
tory. 



INTRODUCTION. 



WE must all die. We who are in the body must 
leave it. And that is death. The law is 
universal. For all we love best graves must open. 
The earth claims our dust, and it takes but little 
space to hide it. " The sea," as wild Walt Whit- 
man says, "is full of ready-made graves." 

But it is a glorious thing that graves on land or 
at sea cannot hold us, for when they open below 
gates open above, and we enter the other life. 
Death is life. " Absent from the body," (poor, si- 
lent, deaf, dead things that we leave!) "present 
with the Lord ! " 

Of course it is hard to die as we view death from 
the one side — the earth side. We know so little. 
We can know so little. Parting for a week almost 
breaks a child's heart. And a strong man who 
crosses the sea for a year brushes the tears from 
his eyes when he says good-bye to his best beloved. 
He goes so far! And why not the sense of loneli- 
ness and bereavement when the soul weighs anchor 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

and crosses from the continent of Matter to the 
mysterious shores of Reality? 

If we knew too much and thought too much 
about the land beyond we should be fitted for little 
here. And we should not be missed at the parting. 
Nor would a reunion be coveted greatly by those 
we leave. 

God has done well in that he has hidden so much; 
seeing that he has revealed so much, and given us 
hunger for immortality and hope and confidence ! 

The thoughts that console us at the time of tem- 
porary separation are in this little volume wisely 
and delicately compiled, that all classes of "those 
who mourn " may have the comfort which the in- 
spiration of God has given, both in his written word 
and in the rich experience of souls who have come 
under the spell and power of his Holy Spirit. 

John H. Vincent. 

Chautauqua, 1895. 



COMFORT ALL THAT MOURN." 



I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the 
dead which die in the Lord from henceforth : Yea, saith the Spirit, 
that they may rest from their labors ; and their works do follow them. 

—Rev. 14. 13. 

God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave : for he shall 
receive me. — Psalm 49. 15. 

We know that, if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, 
we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in 
the heavens. — 2 Cor. 5. 1. 

It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house 
of feasting : for that is the end of all men ; and the living will lay it 
to his heart. — Eccl. 7. 2. 

Blessed are they that mourn : for they shall be comforted. 

—Matt. 5. 4. 

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. 

— Psalm 116. 15. 

God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. — Rev. 21. 4. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES 



OR, 



CONSOLATION FOR THE BEREAVED. 



DEEP GRIEF. 



O that they would not comfort me ! 

Deep grief cannot be reached; 
Wisdom, to cure a broken heart, 

Must not be wisdom preached. 

Deep grief is better let alone; 

Voices to it are swords; 
A silent look will soothe it more 

Than the tenderness of words. 

Deep grief is not a past event; 

It is a life, a state, 
Which habit makes more terrible 

And age more desolate. 

But am I comfortless? O no! 

Jesus this pathway trod; 
And deeper in my soul than grief 

Art thou, my dearest God ! — f. w. faber. 



12 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." 

Deem not that they are blest alone 
Whose days a peaceful tenor keep; 

The anointed Son of God makes known 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night; 

And grief may bide an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light. 

Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, 

Though with a pierced and broken heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 

For God has marked each sorrowing day, 
And numbered every secret tear; 

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Remember now and always that life is no idle 
dream, but a solemn reality based upon eternity. 
Find out your task; stand to it; the night cometh 
when no man can work. — carlyle. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 13 

HOLY GROUND. 

Earth's holiest places are her graves. All that 
is tender and sacred about the human affections 
clusters about the burial places of those we have 
loved. The resting place of the dead is of all the 
fields of earth consecrated to God. As we enter 
God's acre thoughts of the world, its cares and am- 
bitions, its strifes and annoyances, are all shut out, 
and we seem to be nearer to God because we are 
near to the forms of those who have gone to be 
with him. No wonder that the bereaved love to 
place fresh flowers, the pledges of resurrection, upon 
the grassy couches of those whom Christ when he 
comes will bring with him. 

THE BEYOND. 

It seemeth such a little way to me, 

Across to that strange country, the Beyond; 

And yet not strange, for it has grown to be 
The home of those of whom I am so fond; 

They make it seem familiar and most dear, 

As journeying friends bring distant countries near. 

So close it lies that, when my sight is clear, 
I think I see the brightly gleaming strand; 

I know, I feel that those who've gone from here 
Come near enough to touch my hand. 

I often think, but for our veiled eyes, 

We should find heaven round about us lies. 



14 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

I cannot make it seem a day to dread 

When from this dear earth I shall journey out 

To that still dearer country of the dead, 
And join the lost ones so long dreamed about. 

I love this world, yet shall I love to go 

And meet the friends who wait for me, I know. 

I never stand about a bier and see 

The seal of death set on some well-loved face, 
But that I think, one more to welcome me 

When I shall cross the intervening space 
Between this land and that one over there — 
One more to make the strange beyond seem fair. 

And so for me there is no sting to death, 
And so the grave has lost its victory; 

It is but crossing, with abated breath 
And white, set face, a little strip of sea, 

To find the loved ones waiting on the shore, 

More beautiful, more precious than before. 

— Anon. 

Life is not a series of unconnected accidents, 
but a great and solemn stewardship leading up to 
judgment, to penalty or reward. — Joseph parker. 

Behind the dim unknown 
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch 
above his own. 

— JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



INFANCY. 



Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of 
them, and said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and 
become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of 
heaven.— Matt. 18. 2, 3. 

Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not ; 
for of such is the kingdom of God. . . . And he took them up in his 
arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them. — Mark 10. 14, 16. 

Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones ; for I say 
unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of 
my Father which is in heaven. — Matt. 18. 10. 

It is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of 
these little ones should perish. — Matt. 18. 14. 

Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that 
fear him. — Psalm 103. 13. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 17 

THE DEEPEST GRIEF. 

There is many a Rachel mourning for her idol, 
and many an empty pillow upon which a sweet baby 
face once rested. And there is no grief so deep 
and hard to keep from the memory as when the 
loving child trips away with the angel throng. We 
can better forget all other vanished forms, we can 
hide away more cheerfully the white faces in the 
churchyard, we can forget with less regret the 
music of friendly voices, but the memory of the 
little child clings to us like the undying fragrance 
of heavenly flowers. We do not just know w 
but suppose it must be because a child is a part of 
heaven, and what is born of God can never die. 
Heavenly things are so out of place in this world 
that the Father in his loving mercy takes very often 
the sinless child to himself. 

There are so many things that we forget when 
our little ones drift away from us into the silent life 
that if not reminded of them we should sink be- 
neath the load. If no one whispered in our ear the 
story upon the bright side of the dark mystery 
should become hard-hearted, and bitterness would 
take the place of contrite submission. Blessed are 
the lips which speak of the holier plane from which 
we look at things that the world calls mysteries. 
Blessed is the hand that leads the pale mour.tr 
away from the grave of mourned hopes, and points 



18 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

to the eternal life in which every sweet baby spirit 
that ever drifted from this world is found. 

MRS. M. A. HOLT. 

THE PITCHER OF TEARS. 
The woman had closed her eyes, 

A- weary with weeping; 
She leaned on the empty cradle, 

And sobbed in her sleeping. 
Her breast, like the wave of the sea, 

Was rising and falling; 
Her heart, through the mist of sleep, 

On her baby was calling. 

Then her soul was lifted away 

To the garden of heaven, 
Where flowers shine like stars in the grass, 

So smooth and so even; 
And she saw where 'mid roses and May 

An angel did wander, 
With bright children, who looked in his face 

To dream and to wonder. 

Alone, and apart from the rest, 

A little child tarried, 
And in his small arms, soft and round, 

A pitcher he carried. 
His sweet eyes looked wistfully toward 

His mates in the meadow; 
Heaven's glory was bright, but his face 

Bore the touch of earth's shadow. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 19 

The woman knelt down where she stood. 

" My own and my dearie, 
Now why do you wander alone, 

With little feet weary ? 
If you cannot come back, come back, 

To the arms of your mother, 
'Tis your sweet hand the angel should hold, 

And never another." 

"O! mother, the pitcher of tears, 

Your tears, I must carry; 
So heavy it weighs, that behind 

I linger and tarry. 
O! mother, if you would smile, 

And cease from your weeping, 
My place by the angel's side 

I'd gladly be keeping." 

The woman waked by the cradle, 

And smiled in the waking. 
"My baby, the pitcher of tears 

To my heart I am taking. 
Go, frolic and sing with your mates; 

My smiles shall be given 
To make a new light round your head 

In the garden of heaven." 

— LAURA E. RICHARDS. 

O, Rachel! cease thy weeping; they rest from pains 

and cares. 
Lord, grant us hearts as guileless, and crowns as 

bright as theirs. — Anon. 



20 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

THE BLOSSOMS FALL. 

How many blossoms fall from the orchard trees, 
how few remain for full fruition ! Yet we are 
thankful for the bright, fragrant blossoms that fall. 
They serve a noble purpose. They lend to the 
glad springtime so much of beauty and sweetness 
that we cannot say they have bloomed in vain. 

So, too, of the many children who come to glad- 
den human homes, how few stay on earth to reach 
maturity ! How many fall into springtime graves ! 
And they have not lived in vain; their blossom-forms 
brought brightness and joy and blessing even though 
they faded so quickly, and their memory is a pre- 
cious legacy of the heart. 

WHY THE BABY CAME. 

Pillowed on flowers, with a half-open bud in his 
tiny hand, the baby lay, a beautiful image of repose. 
Nothing could be lovelier than the delicate face, the 
little lips just parted, the white brow just shaded 
by soft, silken curls. There was nothing of the re- 
pulsion from death, which some people always suffer 
beside a corpse, to be felt by the most sensitive 
here. As beautiful now as he ever had been in his 
brief, sweet life, the darling seemed to be asleep. 

But it was a frozen sleep. The strong man, pale 
with suppressed emotion, was one who had felt the 
fountains of fatherhood stirred for the first time 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 21 

when the little one uttered his first feeble cry. The 
mother, leaning on his strength now, because grief 
had crushed all her own, had been thrilled with the 
highest joy of womanhood when this nursling was 
given her six months ago. Everything was over 
now. The little garments must be folded up and 
put away. There would be no need of waking in 
the night to take care of baby. Baby was gone. 

Why did the baby come, if it was so soon to be 
taken ? 

You may notice that you seldom hear this question 
from the lips of a mother. She is glad, away down 
to the profoundest depths of her wounded heart, 
that she had the child, though it be removed from 
her arms. She is glad to wear the mother's crown, 
though it be a crown of thorns. 

To the inquirer may this answer be made: The 
baby came for two great reasons. One was that he 
might broaden and enlarge the whole life-sweep of 
all who loved him. Their care for him gave them 
a comprehension of the mystery of childhood, and 
a feeling of the fatherhood of God, that without 
him they might never have possessed. 

The other was that the little spirit, flying heaven- 
ward, might draw by a slender silver thread, in- 
visible but never slackening, the hearts of father 
and mother to the land where He dwells, of whom 
the whole family in heaven and earth is named. 
The baby came not in vain. — Anon. 



22 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

BETTER THAN MARBLE. 

It is related that a person on opening the grave 
of an infant that had been dead several years, to 
remove it to another cemetery, found that, by some 
kindly chemistry, nature had changed the babe to 
a beautiful statue of marble, retaining every part 
and feature in such perfection that it might have 
been used to adorn any parlor. O ye whose loved 
ones still sleep in unopened graves, be of good cour- 
age. The great Alchemist, Christ Jesus, shall by 
and by come and speak the word of resurrection, 
and the forms you so fondly cherish shall reappear, 
not as beautiful statues of marble, but living, incor- 
ruptible, glorious, to gladden your lives with sweet 
companionship forever. 

I feel that repeated afflictions come not as the 
lightning on the scathed tree, blasting it yet more 
and more, but as the strokes of the sculptor on the 
marble block, forming it into the image of beauty 
and loveliness. — h. w. beecher. 

Measure thy life by loss instead of gain; 

Not by the wine drunk, but by the wine poured 

forth; 
For love's strength standeth in love's sacrifice; 
And who suffers most has most to give. 

UGO BASSl'S SERMON. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them 
which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no 
hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them 
also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. — i Thess. 4. 13, 14. 

Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee. 

— Psalm 55. 22. 

Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will 
give you rest. — Matt. 11. 28. 

I am the resurrection, and the life : he that believeth in me, though 
he were dead, yet shall he live : and whosoever liveth and believeth in 
me shall never die. — John 11. 25, 26. 

As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness : I shall be satis- 
fied, when I awake, with thy likeness. — Psalm 17. 15. 

I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to 
be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. — Rom. 8. 18. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. » 25 

SORROW IS WORLD-WIDE. 

Bereavement, disappointment, loss, are univer- 
sal experiences. In the oriental legend the young 
mother brought her dead firstborn to the holy 
Brahman and besought him to restore her child to 
life. The good man bade her go from house to 
house and ask this question: "Has sorrow ever 
crossed this threshold ? " and when she found a 
home into which no grief had ever come he would 
restore her child to life. Eagerly the mother flew 
from door to door, but always the same answer 
came, with many tears and sobs, until she saw that 
earth was full of sorrow — that she had not been 
singled out for the sad affliction. And in the sympa- 
thy which all this common woe aroused in her for 
other sufferers, and in them for her, she read the 
lesson the Brahman meant to teach, and returned to 
bear with fortitude and resignation her own sorrow. 

THE MOTHER OF AN ANGEL. 

There is nothing, I think, in all the world that 
can put the stimulus for higher and sweeter living 
into the heart more surely than the proud conscious- 
ness of a bereaved mother that she has been counted 
worthy to become the mother of an angel ! What 
falterings can be possible to one who has such a 
prize at the end of the goal ? What backslidings or 
unworthiness can clog the onward way of a mother 



26 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

who has a child in heaven to press onward to meet ? 
Gone forever the aptitude for debasing things and 
the desire for any gratifications of sense and caprice 
when she knows that among the hidden throng who 
watch and love in the shrouded skies there is one 
little angel who is her very own, one whose glorified 
face watches like a steadfast star for the drawing 
near of her pilgrim feet to that mysterious gate 
which only a dying breath shall waft ajar. — Anon. 

SHORT LIVES NOT FRUITLESS. 

To those who have lost dear friends in the bloom 
of early life or in the opening career of usefulness 
it is hard to understand the mystery of such appar- 
ent waste of talent, culture, ability. But when we 
reverently repeat the familiar phrase, "I believe in 
the life everlasting," we catch a glimpse through the 
soul-vision of possibilities beyond this limited sphere 
of earthly life. Duration is not the measure of use- 
fulness. Many brief lives are more full of labors 
and results than other lives which round out a good 
old age. Many who depart hence before full matu- 
rity leave behind them more lasting influences to 
bless mankind and shape human thought and life 
than large numbers who reach the allotted time of 
human expectation. Nothing has been lost to Chris- 
tianity by the martyrdoms that have cut off the early 
saints, who, by dying, have left behind them so hal- 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 27 

lowed an influence. Short lives are not fruitless, 
because all the preparations for useful life here 
surely go with them to the larger sphere of activity 
in the limitless, endless realm of God. 

A YEAR IN HEAVEN. 

A year in heaven for her. What is she learning 
Of holy things, of things divine and true ? 

What glorious visions there are still unfolding 
Which here she never knew ? 

Did angel friends await her at her coming ? 

Did angel faces greet her with a smile ? 
Were all the dear ones eager to receive her 

Whom she had lost awhile ? 

A year on earth for us without her presence — 
A year of loneliness and grief and pain; 

But still we smile amid our tears in thinking 
Our loss is but her gain. 

We miss her in our joys and in our sorrows; 

She was our life, our center, and our sun ; 
And yet we would not call her back, but whisper, 

"O God, thy will be done!" 

For heaven and earth are very close together; 

Though she is there, she is not far away; 
She could not leave the dear ones, loved so fondly, 

Even in heaven to stay! 



28 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

But still her spirit, like a guardian angel, 
Is bending o'er us with her own fond care; 

And sometimes she brings heaven so very near us 
We almost think we're there. 

A year in heaven for her, of rest and blessing; 

For us a year on earth, with her above ; 
But heaven and earth are both together blending, 

And over all is Love ! — Anon. 

QUESTIONINGS. 

Why do the children leave us, O our Father, 

The little children cradled on our breasts ? 
Why do our doves fly upward in the morning 

While other birdlings sleep within the nest ? 
Can it be true that music up in heaven 

Is sweeter when their voices join the hymn ? 
Is richer light to realms of glory given 

For that which fading left our homes so dim ? 

And can the angels, who all day are giving 

Care to the lambs within the shepherd's fold, 
Need, as a mother needs amid her grieving, 

The little ones at night to clasp and hold ? 
When shall we see again the precious faces 

That gave our homes such sunshine when they 
smiled ? 
O, what shall fill the heart's sad vacant places, 

Or hush the tones that plead, "Give back the 
child?" 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 29 

Why must we listen vainly for the patter 
Of little feet at morning on the stair, 

And miss the merry sound of childish laughter, 
Or gentler tones saying the evening prayer 

From lips that said their 4 ' Good night " at our knees? 
O, He who made the mother-heart hath surely 

No chiding in his own for thoughts like these. 

In wrath or mercy ? Only he can tell. 

Perhaps in some sweet way there may be written 
Upon our hearts this record, "It is well." 

Perhaps the broken harps that thrill and quiver 
Through all the night, under the hand of pain, 

May, in the morning of a glad forever, 
Wake 'neath God's touch to melody again. 

MARY LOWE DICKINSON. 

THE INVISIBLE CHILDREN. 

It is not when your children are with you, it is 
not when you see them and hear them, that they are 
most to you; it is when the sad assembly is gone; 
it is when the daisies have resumed their growing 
again in the place where the little form was laid; it 
is when you have carried your children out, and said 
farewell, and come home again, and day and night 
are full of sweet memories; it is when summer and 
winter are full of touches and suggestions of them; 
it is when you cannot look up toward God without 
thinking of them, nor look down toward yourself 



30 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

and not think of them; it is when they have gone 
out of your arms, and are living to you only by the 
power of the imagination, that they are the most to 
you. 

The invisible children are the realest children, the 
sweetest children, the truest children, the children 
that touch our hearts as no hands of flesh ever could 
touch them. — h. w. beecher. 



RESIGNATION. 

She is not dead — the child of our affection — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 31 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when, with raptures wild, 
In our embraces we again enfold her 

She will not be a child; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall. we behold her face. 

And though at times, impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seems to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no death ! What seems so is transition. 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portals we call Death. 

— H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



32 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

ONE MOMENT. 

One moment, the sob of parting anguish ; the 
next, the great, deep swell of the angels' song. 
Never think, reader, that the dear ones you have 
seen die had far to go to meet God after they parted 
from you. Never think, parents, who have seen 
your children die, that after they left you they had 
to traverse a dark, solitary way, along which you 
would^ have liked, if it had been possible, to lead 
them by the hand, and bear them company till they 
came into the presence of God. You did so if you 
stood by them till the last breath was drawn. You 
did bear them company into God's very presence if 
you only stayed beside them till they died. The 
moment they left you they were with him. The 
slight pressure of the cold fingers lingered with you 
yet, but the little child was with his Saviour. 

COUNTRY PARSON. 

O blessed sleep ! that will not break 

For tears, nor prayers, nor love's sweet sake ; 

O perfect rest! that knows no pain, 

No throb, no thrill of heart or brain; 

O life sublime beyond all speech, 

That only the pure through dying reach ! 

God understands, and his ways are right; 

Bid his beloved a fond good night. — Anon. 



MATURITY 



Thou earnest them away as with a flood ; they are as a sleep : in 
the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning 
it flourisheth, and groweth up ; in the evening it is cut down, and 
withereth. — Psalm 90. 5, 6. 

The Lord will not cast off forever : but though he cause grief, yet 
will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies. 

—Lam. 3. 31, 32. 

Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to 
try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you : but re- 
joice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ's sufferings ; that, when 
his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy. 

— 1 Peter 4. 12, 13. 

Thou hast been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in 
his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shadow from the heat, when 
die blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall. — Isa. 25. 4. 

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. 

— Psalm 30. 5. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 35 

SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 

How unexpected death always is until it comes 
to one whom we have known. It seems like some- 
thing strange and far away, something that lies 
quite outside the range and circle of our lives. Yet 
when death comes we know the separation is only 
for a little while; that somewhere, somehow we shall 
see the dear face again. God help those who, when 
the loved form is carried out from the home, when 
the words, the face of the dear one are nothing but 
a memory, have no hope of a reunion; whose eyes 
cannot look across the black gulf of death to the 
bright shore of heaven ! If there is anything that 
would make a doubting soul cling to the Christian 
religion it is the promise that it gives of a life be- 
yond this earth. Our hearts cannot give up our 
dead. Something tells us that this is not all, that 
the souls that we have known and loved we shall 
know and love again. — t. b. l. 

God would never let us long for our friends with 
such a strong and holy love, if they were not wait- 
ing for US. WILLIAM MOUNTFORD. 

They that descend into the mines of suffering 
find unbounded riches there. 

Those who dive into the depths of grief find the 
pearls of everlasting life within its caverns. 

— SPURGEON. 



36 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

Our life is a dream; our time, as a stream, 

Glides swiftly away, 
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay. 
The arrow is flown — the moment is gone; 

The millennial year 
Rushes on to our view, and eternity's here. 

—CHARLES WESLEY. 



MEMORY, LOVE, HOPE. 

To those whose loved ones have been glorified 
there is left an imperishable legacy of memory, 
love, and hope. 

Nothing can rob the heart of sweet recollection 
of the happy years that have been wrought into 
life's history. The loving words, the gentle deeds, 
the sympathy and appreciation that have enriched 
our experiences — these and other remembrances 
are ours to cherish and cultivate. Love itself can- 
not die while memory endures. They are our loved 
ones still, though hid from our sight. Love is an 
attribute of the soul, and readily enters the soul 
realm and awaits with patience the reunited life 
which hastens nearer with every setting sun. 

Hope, too, holds out its promise of cheer and 
confidence, not vain deceit or cruel disappointment, 
but the promise that is sure and steadfast, and that 
enters within the veil. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 37 

COMPENSATION. 

What though the kindly heart that loved so 
fondly this home circle has ceased to beat? That 
love, richer, deeper, unceasing, is yet the same in 
the life which she now lives with never a throb of 
pain. What though the hands which served others so 
patiently and willingly are now quietly folded and 
still? They will gladly serve the good Master in 
that larger life of service without weariness. What 
if the feet that were swift to run errands of kind- 
ness and mercy will walk no more the dusty, dif- 
ficult ways of earth? They will walk without wea- 
riness the path of life, and roam unfettered the 
fields of paradise. What though the soul-sense 
that loved so passionately all that was true and 
beautiful here, and the gifted mind that could so 
highly appreciate the choicest of this world's bless- 
ings, are here no longer? They will drink deeply 
and forever in ecstasy of unwearied aspiration the 
fulfillment of every longing desire of mind and 
spirit in the realms of life eternal. She loved flow- 
ers, and has gone to dwell forever amid the beauties 
of the heavenly paradise and breathe the fragrance 
of flowers that never die. She loved music, and 
the voice that praised the Lord here will join un- 
wearied in the chorus of the redeemed in glad 
hallelujahs around the throne of God forever and 
forever. 



38 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

MESSAGES. 

We stood on the verge of the ocean and waved 
farewell to our dearest friends and they sailed out 
of sight. Day after day passed in silence. No 
message came from the loved ones. But one night 
across the wide sea came a brief cablegram con- 
taining but two words from our friends: "Safe! 
Well ! " They brought sweet assurance that the 
stormy voyage was over and our friends were safe 
at home. 

So also, bereaved heart across the dark, wide, 
stormy sea of death on which your loved ones sailed 
away from you, if you will listen with the ear of 
Christian faith, out of God's holy word will come the 
same sweet message to your longing heart : ' ' Safe ! " 
"They are before the throne of God, and serve 
him day and night in his temple." "Well!" "The 
inhabitant shall not say, I am sick." And there 
shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, 
neither shall there be any more pain." 

A LITTLE WHILE. 

We cheerfully consent to let our most cherished 
friends go away from us with those they love, be- 
cause it will increase their happiness. And so 
we allow our children to accept the invitations of 
our kindred to share the privilege of travel for long 
periods of time in distant lands for their profit and 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 39 

improvement. Shall we not bear bravely our loss 
and bereavement when our Saviour takes them to 
be with him in paradise, and dry our tears and cease 
our grieving when we remember that they are now 
the guests of God? 



THE GUESTS OF GOD. 

Why should we wear black for the guests of God ? " — ruskin. 

From the dust of the weary highway, 

From the smart of sorrow's rod, 
Into the royal presence 

They are bidden as guests of God. 
The veil from their eyes is taken, 

Sweet mysteries they are shown, 
Their doubts and fears are over, 

For they know as they are known. 

For them there should be rejoicing 

And festival array, 
As for the bride in her beauty 

Whom love hath taken away. 
Sweet hours of peaceful waiting, 

Till the path that we have trod 
Shall end at the Father's gateway, " 

And we are the guests of God. 

— MARY F. BUTTS. 



40 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

APPRECIATION FOR THE LIVING. 

The time to bestow praise and tender words of 
appreciation upon our friends is not only while we 
are breathing the fragrance of the beautiful flowers 
with which we deck their coffins, but while in the 
stress and pain of human suffering and despair they 
most crave our loving cheer and tender sympathy. 
The time to lavish wreaths and crosses and crowns 
of flowers upon them is when they are sorest pressed 
with the crosses of life, and struggling amid temp- 
tations and doubts to win the wreath-reward of the 
race of life and the heavenly crown of victory at the 
end of the strife with sin. Our praises and consola- 
tions are to be spoken not only in the sweet hymns 
of faith and hope and immortality which we sing over 
their insensible remains, but when the burdened 
heart is longing for sympathy, love, and apprecia- 
tion, and while it can be comforted, refreshed, and 
strengthened by our tenderness and consideration. 

. . . O, YOU, 

Earth's tender and impassioned few, 
Take courage to intrust your love 
To Him so named, who guards above 
Its ends, and shall fulfill! 
Breaking the narrow prayers, that may 
Befit your narrow hearts, away 
In his broad loving will. 

— MRS. EROWNING. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 41 

So long thy power has blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone, 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile ! 

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

And they ? Do they, amid the host 
That throng along the golden street, 

A moment pause — in memory lost — 
And listen for our coming feet 

While angels all around rejoice ? 

Remember they our earthly voice ? 

O! can those pearly gates above 

Shut out from them our yearning love ? 

Or do they sometimes sit apart, 

And ponder on the precious past ? 
Remember they, with loving heart, 

That trembling kiss — it was the last ? 
They cannot sure forget its thrill; 
Its presence lingers round them still, 
For 'twas a soul — 'twas not a breath — 
And Love is mightier than Death. 

— jane t. h. cross. 



42 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 



FOLD YE THE ICE-COLD HANDS. 

Fold ye the ice-cold hands, 

Calm on the troubled breast; 
The toil of the summer day is o'er, 

Now cometh the evening rest. 
And the folded hands have nobly wrought 

Through noontide's din and strife, 
And the dauntless heart has bravely fought 

In the ceaseless war of life. 

Smooth ye the time-thinned hair, 

Still on the marble brow; 
No earthly cloud doth linger there 

To mar its beauty now. 
But brow and lip and darkened eye 

Bear a shade of deep repose, 
As twilight shadows softly lie 

On the widespread winter snows. 

No voice of discord wakes 

The silence still and deep, 
And the far-off sounds of worldly strife 

Cannot break the dreamless sleep. 
Welcome rest to heart long tossed 

On the tide of hopes and fears; 
To the feet that have wandered far and wide, 

O'er the weary waste of years. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 43 

From the gorgeous glare of day 

Welcome the gentle night, 
Fading the tranquil lines away, 

Solemn and calm and bright. 
Then tenderly fold the hands 

In peace on the pulseless breast, 
For the evening shadows come quickly on, 

And sweet is the Christian's rest. 

— W. S. STUDLEY, D.D. 



THEY COME NO MORE. 

Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, 
Those lighted faces smile no more. 

We tread the paths their feet have worn, 
We sit beneath their orchard trees, 
We hear like them the hum of bees 

And rustle of the bladed corn ; 
We turn the pages that they read, 

Their written words we linger o'er, 
But in the sun they cast no shade, 
No voice is heard, no sign is made, 

No step is on the conscious floor! 
Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust 
(Since He who knows our need is just), 
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 
Alas for him who never sees 
The stars shine through his cypress trees! 



44 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

Who hopeless lays his dead away, 
Nor looks to see the breaking day 
Across the mournful marbles play! 
Who hath not learned in hours of faith 
The truth to flesh and sense unknown, 
That Life is ever Lord of Death, 
And Love can never lose its own. 

JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

DEATH OF A MOTHER. 

It is my belief that, as a rule, a man never receives 
from any human source a love so near divine as that 
which comes to him from his mother. The love he 
receives from his father is not likely to be so strong, 
so intense, so tenacious. The love bestowed upon 
him by the wife of his youth, however true and 
fervent, will be less disinterested and imperishable 
than that bestowed by his mother. It is his moth- 
er's love that protects his infancy and blesses his 
boyhood, and, go where he may in after life, or do 
what he may, that same love follows him through all 
his wanderings and abides with him through all the 
fluctuations of fortune. If he succeeds, no other 
will so proudly rejoice in his triumphs; if he fails, no 
other will so truly sympathize. When a man, in 
dashing against society and its laws, has totally 
wrecked himself, and has fallen so low that all others 
turn from him in scorn or loathing, his mother will 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 45 

still cling to him. Only the Son of God, who for 
man's sake sounded all the depths of agony and 
woe, can exceed — or even equal — a mother's love. 

In a very important sense one's mother is always 
with him. Though she may have slept for half a 
century in her grave she is not forgotten, and some- 
times the faded past is strangely revived, with her 
image as the center around which it moves. 

A mother's death, therefore, is never a common- 
place event. It can never be an ordinary bereave- 
ment. It can never fail to rob the landscape of life 
of its most endearing figure. Something henceforth 
will be wanting in the charm of every season; some 
chord will henceforth be wanting in all earthly mu- 
sic. When one's mother is dead there must hence- 
forth be an incompleteness in life that must look 
beyond the mysterious horizon whither she vanished 
for that which will restore perfection. 

REV. J. E. ADAMS. 

MOTHER IS RESTING. 

The long, rough road is ended 

Her weary feet have pressed; 
How rough to her weak footsteps, 

Perhaps we never guessed; 
But with the weary journey 

She'll be no more distressed. 
The face we bend and softly kiss 
Bears no impress but that of bliss. 



46 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

We know that many pages 
Within the book of years 

She has perused with anguish, 
Amid her falling tears; 

That partings, change, and doubting 
Have caused her many fears. 

Forgotten now each pang of woe, 

No grief again her soul will know. 



We gaze at her dear features, 

Within the casket bound, 
And think that she is dwelling 

Where changeless peace is found, 
That there no painful partings 

Her loving heart will wound; 
And, weeping for her, "loved and gone, 1 
We gather strength to walk alone — 



Along the way before us, 

Whither — we do not know; 
It may be strewn with blessings, 

And pleasures we may know, 
Or, thickly set with dangers, 

May bring us naught but woe. 
Yet, o'er life's pathway she has come, 
At last, unto her heavenly home. 

— THE HOUSEHOLD. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 47 

THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 

It is impossible to tell here all that she said to 
us, her children, to her husband, to her neighbors. 
Her mind was clear as the morning light. Her 
rest in God was perfect. Her confident hope was 
undimmed. The heaven she had lived for, and the 
spirit and life of which she had herself illustrated, 
was now opening for her triumphant entrance. 

The theme she most dwelt upon was that of a 
holy life. She had made no profession of a "higher 
life," of a " perfect love," of a "second blessing; " 
but she had so lived for long years that when she 
repeated again and again the words, " Live holy! 
live holy! " to everyone at her bedside, the full force 
of the divine counsel and her fitness to speak it 
were felt by all. She sent farewell messages to ab- 
sent neighbors. The humblest and the poorest of 
them she had through the years visited and be- 
friended. She said, "I love them all." Several 
times she exclaimed, "God is love!" and "Jesus 
is precious! "... 

"Do you fear death? " my father asked. 

With a smile I shall never forget, she replied 
emphatically, "No!" " But," she added, "it is a 
solemn thing to die, and to stand before a pure and 
holy God." 

And now the struggle seemed about over. My 
father addressed her, and she started and fixed 



48 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

her eyes on him. He asked, "Is Jesus still pre- 
cious? " She did not appear to understand or hear 
him. He repeated the question in a louder voice, 
and then again. All at once her face became ra- 
diant. Her old sweet smile came back. Her full 
energy of life seemed to be restored. The flashing 
of light from above seemed to transfigure her face, 
and with emphasis she said, pronouncing every word 
with great distinctness, " O, yes, Jesus is precious ! " 
Then in a soft voice, but full of rapture, she said, 
"Glory, glory, glory!" 

With a smile on her dear lips, she said, as though 
responding to invisible attendants, "Come, come, 
come! " and thus my mother died — to live forever! 

BISHOP VINCENT, IN " MY MOTHER." 

THE TEARLESS LAND. 

Our floral forget-me-nots blossom, and die 

When the winds of the autumn sweep chillingly by; 

But the heart's bright forget-me-nots never shall 

fade 
When under the white drifts our loved ones are laid; 
And the days, as they fly o'er the dial of time, 
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime 
Where we shall again our best loved ones embrace 
And the glories of home shall earth's sorrows efface. 

We weave from fair blossoms a cross and a crown, 
And on the cold coffin we lay them both down; 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 49 

Tis all we can do; we'll adorn the fair clay 
Ere under the white drifts we lay it away. 
But the days, as they fly o'er the dial of time, 
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime 
Where the crowns are not leaves that must wither 

and mold, 
But they sparkle with jewels and glisten with gold. 

We sing our sweet hymns round the slumbering 

clay 
Ere under the white drifts we lay it away; 
And we lift our dim eyes to the kingdom above, 
Unto Him who chastiseth us only in love. 
O ! the days, as they fly o'er the dial of time, 
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime 
Where the songs of the blest with the sainted we'll 

sing 
At the feet o£ our Prophet, our Priest, and our King. 

We bury the dead we so love from our sight, 
While a star beameth forth from the depths of our 

night; 
It comforts the heart, and dispeileth the gloom, 
As we follow the dead to the rest of the tomb. 
O ! the days, as they fly o'er the dial of time, 
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime 
Where "the King in his beauty," the Bethlehem 

Star, 
Shall cheer us forever in kingdoms afar. 

—JOHN H. YATES. 



SO BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

I SHALL BE SATISFIED. 

When I shall wake in that fair morn of morns, 
After whose dawning never night returns, 
And with whose glory day eternal burns, 

I shall be satisfied. 

When I shall see thy glory face to face, 
When in thine arms thou wilt thy child embrace, 
When thou shalt open all thy stores of grace, 

I shall be satisfied. 

When I shall meet with those whom I have loved, 
Clasp in my eager arms the long removed, 
And find how faithful thou to me hast proved, 

I shall be satisfied. 

When this vile body shall arise again, 

Purged by thy power from every taint and stain, 

Delivered from all weakness and all pain, 

I shall be satisfied. 

When I shall gaze upon the face of Him 
Who for me died, with eye no longer dim, 
And praise him with the everlasting hymn, 

I shall be satisfied. 

When I shall call to mind the long, long past, 
With clouds and storms and shadows overcast, 
And know that I am blest and saved at last, 

I shall be satisfied. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 51 

When every enemy shall disappear, 
The unbelief, the darkness, and the fear, 
When thou shalt smooth the brow and wipe the tear, 

I shall be satisfied. 

When every vanity shall pass away, 
And all be real, and all without decay, 
In that sweet dawning of eternal day, 

I shall be satisfied. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



IN SHADOW LAND. 

In shadow land I wander far, 
Without the clasp of that dear hand 
Whose mother-love was like a star 
In shadow land. 

Her soul has reached the shining strand, 
Where waves that roll from death's dark bar 
Lapse into light and music grand 
In shadow land. 

She dwells where darkness cannot mar 
The hills of God, by glory spanned ; 
/ roam where Grief's gray memories are, 
In shadow land. 

— WILLIAM H. HAYNE. 



52 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

THE SHORE OF ETERNITY. 

Alone! to land alone upon that shore, 
With no one sight that we have seen before; 

Things of a different hue, 

And the sounds all new, 
And fragrances so sweet the soul may faint. 
Alone! O, that first hour of being a saint! 

Alone ! to land alone upon that shore, 
On which no wavelets lisp, no billows roar, 

Perhaps no shape of ground 

Perhaps no sight or sound, 
No forms of earth our fancies to arrange — 
But to begin alone that mighty change ! 

Alone! to land alone upon that shore, 
Knowing so well we can return no more; 

No voice or face of friend, 

None with us to attend 
Our disembarking on that awful strand, 
But to arrive alone in such a land ! 

Alone ! to land alone upon that shore ! 
To begin alone to live forevermore, 

To have no one to teach 

The manners or the speech 
Of that new life, or put us at our ease — 
O that we might die in pairs or companies ! 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 53 

Alone? the God we know is on that shore, 
The God of whose attractions we know more 

Than of those who may appear 

Nearest and dearest here; 
O, is he not the lifelong friend we know 
More privately than any friend below? 

Alone ! the God we trust is on that shore, 
The Faithful One whom we have trusted more, 

In trials and in woes, 

Than we have trusted those 
On whom we leaned most in our earthly strife; 
O ! we shall trust him more in that new life ! 



Alone ! the God we love is on that shore — 
Love not enough, yet whom we love far more, 

And whom we loved all through, 

And with a love more true 
Than other loves, yet now shall love him more. 
True love of him begins upon that shore! 

So not alone we land upon that shore; 
'Twill be as though we had been there before; 

We shall meet more we know 

Than we can meet below, 
And find our rest like some returning dove, 
And be at home at once with our eternal love! 

— F. W. FABER. 



54 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

SAFE AT HOME. 

The world need never shed a tear for its sainted 
dead. They are safe as the harvest is when the 
farmer has bound it into sheaves and stored it, or 
as the roses are when the gardener has wrapped 
their roots in straw and housed them from the 
storm. They are safe as larks are that fly sing- 
ing from, the green earth out of reach of the hunts- 
man's snare and the aim of the cruel sportsman. 
They are safe as warriors are who march beneath 
worn battle flags no more, but sit down with con- 
querors to festivals of song and wine. They are 
safe as young lambs are when shepherds fold them 
from the blast and carry them over rough places in 
tender arms. Weep for the living all you choose, 
and let your tears be unstayed above the dying bed 
where your darlings lie like wreaths of fading snow 
beneath the glance of Death, but if you believe in 
God and hold any faith in heaven never shed a tear 
for the blessed and happy dead. Christianity gives 
the lie to its belief when it garbs itself in sables and 
mourns without comfort for those who have ex- 
changed the inn for the palace, the wilderness for 
the land of peace and plenty. — amber. 



THE AGED 



I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at 
hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have 
kept the faith : henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of right- 
eousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that 
day : and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his ap- 
pearing. — 2 Tim. 4. 6-8. 

Thou shalt go to thy fathers in peace ; thou shalt be buried in a 
good old age.— Gen. 15. 15. 

Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like as a shock of corn 
cometh in in his season. — Job 5. 26. 

I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and to be 
with Christ ; which is far better.— Phil. 1. 23. 

Here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come. 

— Heb. 13. 14. 

Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty : they shall behold the 
land that is very far off. — Isa. 33. 17. 

I know that my Redeemer liveth.— Job 19. 25. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 57 

GOOD NIGHT. 

Sleep on, beloved, sleep and take thy rest; 
Lay down thy head upon thy Saviour's breast; 
We love thee well, but Jesus loves thee best — 
Good night! Good night! Good night! 

Calm is thy slumber as an infant's sleep; 
But thou shalt wake no more to toil and weep; 
Thine is a perfect rest, secure and deep — 
Good night! Good night! Good night! 

Until the shadows from this earth are cast, 
Until He gathers in his sheaves at last, 
Until the twilight gloom be overpast — 
Good night! Good night! Good night! 

Until the Easter glory lights the skies, 
Until the dead in Jesus shall arise, 
And he shall come, but not in lowly guise — 
Good night! Good night! Good night! 

Until made beautiful by love divine, 
Thou, in the likeness of thy Lord, shall shine, 
And he shall bring that golden crown of thine — 
Good night! Good night! Good night! 

Only ' ' Good night, " beloved— not ' ' Farewell ! " 
A little while, and all his saints shall dwell 
In hallowed union indivisible — 

Good night! Good night! Good night! 



58 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

Until we meet again before His throne, 
Clothed in the spotless robe he gives his own, 
Until we know even as we are known — 
Good night! Good night! Good night! 

— Anon. 

With thy rude plowshare, Death, turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; 

This is the field and acre of our God, 

This is the place where human harvests grow! 

The graves grow thicker, and life's ways more bare, 

As years on years go by; 
Nay, thou hast more green gardens in thy care, 

And more stars in thy sky! 
No jubilees, few gladsome, festive hours, 

Form landmarks for my way, 
But heaven and earth, and saints and friends and 
flowers, 

Keep resurrection day. 

— LYRA MYSTICA. 

Extraordinary afflictions are not always the 
punishment of extraordinary sins, but sometimes 
the trial of extraordinary graces. 

MATTHEW HENRY. 

An aged Christian wrote in his diary: "I praise 
the Lord for every step of the way in which he has 
led me, for every loss and cross, sorrow and trial, 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 59 

for every circumstance of my life, because by them 
all he has brought me where I can trust him in all 
things." 

REST, HOME, LIFE. 

Rest for the weary 

In a land where toil shall cease, 
Earth sad and dreary 

Left for heaven's peace. 
Rest from care and sadness, 

Rest from pain and strife and woe; 
There all joy and gladness 

Spirits blest e'er know. 

Home for the wayworn 

On time's rough, tempestuous way, 
Through glory's gates, borne 

Up to endless day. 
Home in heaven forever, 

Home where wanderings all are o'er, 
Where the ransomed never 

Leave the Saviour more. 

Life for the dying, 

Whither death can never come, 
Sorrow and sighing 

Ne'er shall reach that home. 
Life where tears shall vanish, 

Life eternal, blissful, free; 
Love all fears shall vanish, 

God his saints shall see. 



60 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

AT THE LAST. 

The stream is calmest when it nears the tide, 
The flowers are sweetest at the eventide, 
The birds most musical at close of day, 
The saints divinest when they pass away. 

Morning is holy, but a holier charm 
Lies folded up in Evening's robe of balm; 
And weary men must ever love her best, 
For morning calls to toil, but night to rest. 

She comes from heaven, and on her wings doth bear 
A holy fragrance, like the breath of prayer; 
Footsteps of angels follow in her trace, 
To shut the weary eyes of Day in peace. 

All things are hushed before her, as she throws 
O'er earth and sky her mantle of repose. 
There is a calmer beauty and a power 
That morning knows not in the evening's hour. 

Until the evening we must weep and toil — 
Plow life's stern furrow and dig the woody soil, 
Tread with sad feet the rough and thorny way, 
And bear the heat and burden of the day. 

O! when the sun is setting, may we glide 
Like summer evening down the golden tide, 
And leave behind us, as we pass away, 
Sweet starry twilight round our sleeping clay. 

— Anon. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 61 

THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 

Beyond 
That belt of darkness still the years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 
And lost to sight — all that in them was good, 
Noble, and truly great and worthy of love — 
The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 
Sages and saintly women who have made 
Their households happy — ail are raised and borne 
By that great current on its onward sweep, 
Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 
Around green islands, fragrant with the breath 
Of flowers that never wither. So they pass, 
From stage to stage, along the shining course 
Of that fair river broadening like a sea. 
As its smooth eddies curl along their way, 
They bring old friends together; hands are clasped 
In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms 
Again are folded round the child she loved 
And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 
Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 
That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled 
Or broke are healed forever. In the room 
Of their grief-shadowed Present there shall be 
A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 
The heart, and never shall a tender tie 



62 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 

Be broken, in whose reign the eternal change 
That waits on growth and action shall proceed 
With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

ONLY WAITING. 
Only waiting, till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown ; 
Only waiting, till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown; 
Till the night of earth is faded 

From the hearts once full of day; 
Till the stars of heaven are breaking 

Through the twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting, till the reapers 

Have the last sheaf gathered home; 

For the summer time is faded, 
And the autumn winds have come. 



BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 63 

Quickly, reapers, gather quickly 
These last ripe hours of my heart, 

For the bloom of life is withered, 
And I hasten to depart. 

FRANCES L. MACE. 

FINAL VICTORY. 

Behold, I show you a mystery; We shall not 
all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, 
in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for 
the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be 
raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For 
this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this 
mortal must put on immortality. So when this cor- 
ruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this 
mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be 
brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is 
swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy 
sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting 
of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. 
But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory 
through our Lord Jesus Christ. 

Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, 
unmovable, always abounding in the work of the 
Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not 
in vain in the Lord. — i cor. 15. 51-58. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Nov. 2005 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 

.(724)779-2111= 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




017 077 326 3 * 




